She only hesitated a moment. Then her arms tightened about me. I lowered my face into the artful arrangement of her hair and was tickled by more than the tendrils when she showed as little concern for her appearance in that comfortable moment as I did for mine.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, barely audible through the background chatter.
I kissed her cheek. "How's Trés?" It wasn't my main concern but I knew she wanted me to ask.
Her face lightened as she stepped back. "The doctors think he may already be out of danger. He's still in ICU, but they say they'll move him out first thing in the morning if he does well tonight."
Young and strong. I didn't remind her of the family obstinacy. We were getting along fine; I wanted that to continue. Sometimes it wasn't entertaining, being the only person this mouse would challenge. "That's great."
"Now come and see his pastels. They're marvelous." She tilted her head again, for all the world like a little girl using her charms to get her way. The brilliant track lighting shone its spotlights on and about her, a screen star on a hardwood stage with a party as a backdrop.
I couldn't stop my glance toward the entrance. But Father and William, in heated discussion, hovered over the punch bowl, neither of them glancing our way, and the display she indicated was in the other direction. "All right, let's."
I'm no expert on art in any format and I certainly hadn't intended to waste any time on the displays. But after we ducked past several people I didn't recognize, my glance at the first pastel became a prolonged stare.
It depicted a yellow rose, each petal edged with crimson, dark green leaves mixed with the red ones of new growth. I recognized it — Aunt Edith had one in the bed near the statue of the sword-maiden and its heady scent was interwoven in my memories as an integral part of Shakespeare. Although the pastel only pictured one rose, the detailing brought the actual bush to mind, intricate lines insinuating its upright growth, long stems, tiny thorns, big leaves. I even imagined I could smell it.
The second pastel, a step along the wall, showed a white cabbage rose glistening with dew. I didn't know that one, but the other five stretching beyond each grew in one of Aunt Edith's flower beds. I'd helped her prune and mulch and feed them for years. The single pastel flowers bloomed in their frames, each spotlighted by a miniature sun, just as the bushes bloomed in the garden.
I have to show Aunt Edith these pastels, she'll adore them, I thought, and then remembered she was dead. My throat tightened dangerously. "Damn."
Patricia misunderstood me, perhaps not hearing the catch in my voice through the chatter rippling about the showroom. "I told you, they're marvelous. Do you know them? They're Mum's best roses."
Her mother, my Aunt Viola, hybridized roses as a hobby. "Did she send them to Aunt Edith through the years?" I hadn't realized.
"Yes, except for the white one. We didn't think it would do well in Boston."
"This is amazing." It was easy to stare at those pastels; it was almost as good as sitting out by the flower beds themselves; and the lump in my throat eased. Maybe they'd work in the white living room in my condo. But Aunt Edith's house was mine now, and who knew what I'd do with two residences. Perhaps the pastels would work in her formal parlor or along the stairs if I got rid of all that modern stuff. Overload; I couldn't go there and closed my eyes against the emotional flood.
The only thing I was certain of was, I liked the pastels. And considering they'd been done by William's son, that was pretty amazing.
"Come and see the oils now."
Again I checked Father and William's location. They strolled about the far side of the showroom, wading in and out of the pooled spotlights beyond the punchbowl and momentarily visible between bodies and displays. They still argued without glancing our way and I couldn't decide if I liked that or not; it seemed insulting even if it was safest. Again, Patricia's chosen direction led away from them and deeper into Prissy's maze. "The oils, then."
On our way to the oils we passed Patricia's elder siblings, Ralph and Miriam, giggling shamelessly in a corner behind free-standing displays. The twins were opposites in appearance — he slight and dark, she sturdy and brown, both with good-natured smiles and those signature green eyes — and duplicates in silly behavior. They'd done everything together, those two, while maintaining their individuality, earning graduate degrees from the same Cambridge college, he in one subject, she in another, and then having a double wedding (no, not to another set of twins). They even broke their legs (his right, her left) while skiing on the same day. And together they'd opened an interior design firm in London. They had to be doing well, too, judging from the caliber of their clothing. Ralph's suit had definite traces of Armani in the cut.
I'd always liked the twins in an awed sort of way — they were almost too glamorous to be human — and returned their greetings with as much grace as I could muster. We'd never gotten truly friendly but they never treated me as a pariah or the family black sheep, and their distant kindness was appreciated.
"Are they doing that well?" I murmured into Patricia's ear as we wound our way deeper into Prissy's maze. "That suit must have set Ralph back — well, more than I'd pay."
She glanced wryly at me and my tailored uniform as we passed beneath one of the spotlights. The insignia glittered and the white was spotless. I was more proud of it than ever and glad I'd put some time into preparations.
"Midas Miriam, I've always called her." The grin slipped as she sighed. "I've never been able to compete with her. Or him."
I took Patty's hand to keep us together as several people I didn't know flowed past going the other way. "You know, that's what it's always been like between William and me."
Her glance was sad. "Even if I can't compete with her, I still love her."
There was nothing I could say to that and I still wanted us to have a pleasant evening. So I squeezed her hand and let the subject drop.
Trés' oils were a completely different style from his pastels. Bold strokes detailed realistic objects, but in unrelated groupings and off-the-wall settings. In the first, a perfectly-shaped mint-colored sphere floated near a window inside an old-fashioned yellow kitchen. A pint-sized horse and rider galloped across the tiled floor, the rider waving a tricorne hat. The table was set for tea, but the sugar lumps were tiny boulders; a crane maneuvered the silverware into position and a bulldozer unloaded biscuits onto a serving plate.
"Every time I look at this one, I find something new."
The oil well by the sink served as a soap dispenser and a ginger cat atop the fridge stared haughtily down at the tabletop construction site. I shook my head. "William's son did this?" I located my brother through the crowd, nearer now but not so much that I felt actively combative. A spotlight dusted his profile as he gazed at the pastels. He was alone, and a quick sweep of the showroom located Father's trim salt-and-pepper hair beside the buffet tables, back still toward us, in conversation with his brother, Patricia's father, my Uncle Preston. The lighting fell full on Uncle Preston's confident smile, as if he was one of the exhibits rather than a member of the audience, and as I watched he nodded.
Patty stared at the painting as if she'd missed my surveillance. "Oh, Trés is fabulous. He's been out-drawing his art teachers since he was ten."
"Well, he must get that from his mother."
On William's arm now was an absolute stunner. I could only assume her to be his wife — what was her name? Linda? — for her eyes were red and swollen as only a mother's eyes would be for her injured child. But that did nothing to detract from her beauty, which began with ripples of soft honey-colored hair and ended with sculpted calves that didn't need her high heels to look good. In her coral tea-length dress, trimmed with white lace, she was the epitome of English peaches-and-cream, a look I'd never much cared for until I saw it on her.
Patricia let my snottiness ride. "Look at this one."
I pretended to look while watching the family. In their vicinity now was a younger version of Lind
a; the two women even wore the same dresses and were almost the same size. The daughter — Lindsay, I remembered, and about fifteen or so — stared at me until I openly glanced her way. Then she found the charcoals of extreme interest.
But Linda snuck a nod and small smile to me; I couldn't help but return the smile. Funny, she didn't seem snooty at all and despite her elegant looks not the sort of woman I'd have expected William to marry.
Halfway around the gallery I started glancing at the discreet price tags.
"You don't think he's asking a bit much for a first showing?"
Patty shook her head. "Not according to Aunt Edith, and surely she would have known."
We almost passed Patricia's younger brother, Jacob, before I recognized him. He stood alone with his back to a display, dark eyes just out of reach of the lights. Jacob was the family changeling, his blond hair and black, pupil-less eyes like no one else named Ellandun, and I know the twins used to rag him over being found in a gully behind the house, or left behind by aliens, and things similarly silly. He looked up, found me watching him, and started.
"Charles?" His clipped tenor sounded rough, as if he didn't use it often enough. "Is it my turn?"
"Your turn?" I didn't know Jacob all that well, so I hoped he was being friendly. It was difficult to be certain with his closed, give-nothing-away face. "For what?"
"To pay my respects, of course," he held out his hand, "and to offer my condolences. Aunt Edith was a grand woman. I don't have to tell you she'll be missed."
For Jacob, the quiet man who seemed perpetually in the corner, that was a real speech and more words than I'd ever heard him say before. I took his hand wordlessly. He glanced down again, slapped my shoulder, and moved to join the twins. In their glamorous presence he seemed more an odd duck than ever. Like Patty, he grew up in their elegant, unified shadow and like her he seemed to dwindle in the comparison.
The display Jacob had hidden showcased sculptures carved from gemstones, small and perfectly-detailed African and Indian animals. There was a sardonyx tiger, the orange and white stripes of the agate beginning in the ruffles around the big cat's face and tracing all the way down the tail. A red-and-gold spotted jasper brought the cheetah to life; the camel was of golden citrine; and the rhino was smoky quartz.
"I have to get that hippo for Aunt Edith's collection." It was carved from a wonderful emerald with black inclusions, the dark spots positioned perfectly to serve as eyes, nose, mouth, tail, and feet, one of them raised.
"She already bought it," Patty said. "He's holding it for her until the end of the show."
I glanced around the room but recognized no one near, and finally admitted it: the people, including the family, were as fascinating as the artwork. The spotlights, positioned so perfectly for each canvas, flickered across faces as people strolled about, lighting them like stars then throwing them into shadows like the chorus, and the shifting play was fascinating. "Now, I know there are two other artists in this show. Which of this is theirs and what was done by Trés?"
Patty shook her head. "Everything you've seen is Trés' work."
"All of it? The oils, these gem carvings, the pastels, watercolors—"
She interrupted. "All of it. I told you he's marvelous."
Her words raised a question in my mind. I took a slower inventory of the room and compared what I could see with my knowledge of Prissy's floor plan. "Patty, that's well over half the show. What about the other two artists? Didn't they complain?"
"Yes, well, there were a few heated words, but he is — well, was Aunt Edith's great-nephew, after all. If she wanted to show him off—" She stopped. "You aren't thinking—"
I shrugged; it would do no good to upset her. "I suppose if it could seriously damage their careers, perhaps giving them such a small section in a show might be a motive for murder. But I find it difficult to believe, don't you?" I glanced about again as we strolled past more of Trés' watercolors. "Have you seen Prissy tonight?"
"Not yet, but that's not unusual, is it? She generally takes time to fortify her nerves before making her grand entrance." Patty ducked behind a free-standing display, her hands flying to her chignon, where bobby pins peeked from beneath the coils of hair. "Aunt Edith usually covered for her, but now—"
As Aunt Edith's principal heir, covering for Prissy was now my job. I felt not up to it and ignored the hint. And I knew all about Prissy fortifying her nerves; I'd split a flask with her before previous shows and never got half. But Patty seemed to have forgotten my insinuation and rearranged pins and hair with a serene expression, so the tactic could be considered successful. "Is the art world like the military?" I studied the nearest display, where a watercolor sun rose or set beyond a Caribbean isle. It would look grand over Uncle Hubert's fireplace. "Does one need nerves of steel to survive and thrive?"
"Oh, give it a miss. Mum, there you are."
Aunt Viola, the rose hybridizer, slipped behind the display. Her face brightened when our gazes met and she pulled me down a foot so she could buff my cheek. Here was where Patricia's mousy brown hair and trim little nose originated, as well as the maternal nature and romantic overtones. The practicality and old-fashioned common sense came via Uncle Preston, who trailed behind his wife and squeezed my shoulder.
It always amazed me that Uncle Preston had so many facial features in common with my father and yet appeared so utterly different. They both had black hair now mostly grey, rugged faces, prominent cheekbones and chins, and the signature Ellandun green eyes and Roman nose. It took me years to figure out the difference lay in mannerisms and expressions: Father was an arrogant, carnivorous legal eagle, Uncle Preston an Anglican dove.
I used to wonder what my life might have been like if Uncle Preston had been my father; not even in nightmares could I imagine him kicking out one of his children, no matter what mischief they created nor how many schools expelled them. During all the years of Father's disregard, Uncle Preston and Aunt Viola had visited Boston twice yearly, always saving one day to spend with me, and they'd sent Patricia over every summer since she was eleven and I was twelve.
"All right, Charles?" Aunt Viola kissed me a second time for good measure. I kissed back.
Uncle Preston gave me a gentle shake. "Come and talk with me, lad."
It never occurred to me to refuse nor even request a reason. We excused ourselves from the ladies and ducked behind a display of oils I'd missed earlier. Uncle Preston, hand still on my shoulder, eased me close enough to whisper and be heard through the background chatter.
"Your father wants to see you."
He just did, or at least he'd had several chances and hadn't even glanced at me. But I said nothing and gave myself extra-credit points for self-restraint. I needed a quick and courteous method of telling Uncle Preston to keep his nose out. I'd no intention of chatting politely or otherwise with Father.
But to my horror he looked past me and raised his chin, as if inviting someone to join us, before I had a chance to stop him. I shot a glance that way. Father limped toward us through a wash of light, his cane tapping on the hardwood floor barely audible through the chatter. His eyes were fixed on me, not as stern as I recalled but not gentle either. Over his shoulder Linda and William watched, my brother's spotlighted expression skeptical. Behind us, I heard a little gasp that had to be from Patty.
Had they all conspired to trap me?
"Uncle Preston, no. I don't—"
"Shhh." His look was not kindly. "He has a heart condition and arthritic knees. He's not going to eat you. Don't you think it's time you two made up?"
To hell with courtesy. I shook off his hand and returned his look. "It's not your business."
His cheekbones tightened, the skin of his cheeks whitening over their angles. "We'll finish this later." And he left.
The tapping was very near. I supposed I could run for it, but that felt cowardly and I refused to allow my family to reduce me to such behavior. There was no civilized choice but to face my father.
I wasn't certain what I felt. Shocked wariness layered my thoughts and no hard emotion seemed ready to bubble to the surface. Good; perhaps I could get out of this with some sort of dignity intact.
After all, I'd prepared for such a meeting since I was twelve years old and first realized he wasn't going to return to Boston to retrieve me.
Father took a deep breath and raised his chin. "Charles."
It was the first word he'd said to me since I was eleven.
Something inside me — something alive — uncoiled from about my heart. Blood pulsed in my ears. Perhaps I was wrong about the numbness.
I found I needed extra air, too. "Father."
"I'm so sorry." He paused. "For your loss."
Aunt Edith, he meant, and not anything that had passed — or not passed — between the two of us. That apology, it seemed, would not be forthcoming. I made appropriate noises despite my contrary inclination. "Thank you."
"I wished to see you tonight. There's much we should discuss and I'd like to arrange a time to do so." Tension stood between us like another living thing. He watched me in silence, as if waiting for something, pressed his lips together, and tried again. For the first time in my memory, his articulate voice sounded gentle. "I didn't wish to see you left alone at such a time."
I'd expected judgment and condemnation. I'd practiced for it, thinking through elegant put-downs and dignified forbearance. I'd intended to win our war and walk away, back to my battlemented, isolated citadel, and never deal with my family again. Instead, Father handed me an olive branch.
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